


Strays

by Sporie121



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, Gen, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:19:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sporie121/pseuds/Sporie121
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John always did have a way with lost strays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strays

John Watson always had a way with lost strays.

This was mostly because of the farm that was next to his house for the majority of the doctor's childhood, with the barn that was once a deep, velvety red until the Farmer died and the barn was abandoned and became the colour of dried blood. Inside the barn, there was a family of feral cats living there, crouching down to the darkest corners with their ears pressed to their heads when John and Harry went in for the first time. John used to go there every day once he realised the animals living there, sitting on a bale of hay or a a bag of expired feed, waiting patiently for the cats to slowly creep over to him. Harry got bored after a few minutes, sighing and muttering curses John wasn't too sure were appropriate for a nine year old to know, and instead sat on the ground playing her gameboy and nodding a grunting when John excitedly pointed to the tabby or ginger tom that was slowly crawling towards him, ears alert and whisker bristling. One cat in particular took a shine to John, who soon became the child's favourite because of how different the was compared to the other animals. It had slanted, deep emerald eyes and tangled black fur, and had unusually long legs. The seventh time John had seen the cat, it climbed onto his lap, a deep, rumbling purr running through it's body when John gently stroked it's head.

That was the first stray John had ever met, but it definitely wasn't the last.

The second stray John had had found wasn't a scrawny feral cat living on mice in a barn, but a human- more specifically, his Mother.

John hardly ever remembered his Mother and Father even being able to stand in the same room without ending in an argument. In the books John read and the TV shows he watched, the mummy and the daddy never fought or screamed the way the doctor's parents did. Whenever they argued John crawled into Harry'd bed, who wrapped her arms around him around him after sleepy complaints. The morning after was what John always hated the most, when his Mother's red, puffy eyes and his Father's throat was raw from shouting abuse. One night, after the usual screams and clatters, he heard the door slam so hard John sleepily wondered if the door had been pulled off its hinges, and the oar of the car engine as it sped away. John felt Harry sit up, her arms unravelling from his tiny body as she jumped out of bed and ran over to the window. "What is it?" John asked, his toes burning from balancing on them as he looked out the window to the black street. "Nothing, Johnny. Go back to sleep." Harry's voice sounded strange, and John wondered if she might be crying, but John knew that Harry never cried. Instead he climbed back into bed, pulling the striped covers over his head so he could pretend it was someone else crying by the window instead of his sister.

When John woke up the next morning, Harry was fast asleep on the floor. John quietly walked downstairs to find his mother sitting at the table, frantically texting someone. Her face was hidden by her golden curls from where John was standing, but it didn't take a genius to figure out she was crying. "John? John, is that you?" John nearly ran back upstairs, but instead found his chubby legs moving towards his Mum. Nearly instantly his Mother collapsed against him, sobbing into his T-shirt. John slowly rubbed her back and her head, the way the cat that used to like him loved (all the cats were brought to an animal shelter when the farm was put up for sale), mumbling words into her ear in the hope of cheering her up. "Sssh. It's okay, Mum." She rubbed her head against John's chest, making her seem more like a stray animal looking for attention than ever.

That was John's second stray.

 

John's third stray turned out to be another family member.

John and Harry were later sent to a foster home, after a woman with a quiet voice explained to a tearful John and Harry that their Mum wasn't coping, and that maybe she could look after them again in the forseeable future. That year Harry met Clara, a shy girl with short, glossy brown hair and honey coloured eyes, which ended up with John beating up about half of the boys in his class for calling Harry a fag. John liked Clara, because she wrote poetry and laughed at his jokes that Harry always said were shit and made Harry happy, which instantly made her a god in John's mind. So when their relationship ended, John thought that Harry throwing the TV remote out the window and barging into John's room sobbing, John was more than willing to accept another stray. This time he managed to distract her by playing video games, and joking and making a list of horrible things about Clara. The list ended up being very short, but it managed to calm her down. Eventually Harry lay her head on Jon's shoulder, falling fast asleep after mumbling thanks. John slowly shifted Harry down to the mattress, wrapping the blanket and his arms around her freezing body, the way she used to when John was younger. John stayed like that until he fell asleep to the sound of his sister's breathing.

At age twenty John realised strays would never stick around.

 

At least, the strays that John knew.

The strays that John were familiar with stayed for cuddles and food and soft words whispered into their ears, then they left to leave John to clean up the mess they leave, because for John there always was a mess to clean. 

There was Harry, who was fine until one of the kids in school gave her a sip of booze when she was seventeen and decided she couldn't get enough of the stuff. After a long argument with John ending with her screaming she hated him and never wanted to see him again, John decided that strays sometimes weren't worth bothering to pick up and pet in the hopes that they'll tolerate you.

So he signed up for the army instead.

Really, John didn't really realise what he'd done until he felt the scorching heat of the sun and the gruff voices of soldiers and the blood on his hands. There was a lot of strays here, he realised. Though they weren't they strays John was used to, ones that wanted someone to pet and talk to. They were more like the cats in the barn, almost always too proud to ask for help and seeming confused when gruff mumbles that sounded like thanks and a light pat on the shoulder wasn't enough for a lot if the army there, but it was enough for this one.

When he was shot and woke up to find the heat and the festering pain replaced with the coolness and soft sheets of the hospital, the doctor was surprised to find after he left he strangely found he missed Afghanistan. Maybe there was the pain and the nightmares and the therapy, but he felt an overwhelming need to go back.

 

Sherlock, John's (hopefully) last stray, was the best stray he ever had.

 

Sherlock was cold and calculated, denying touches and displays of human affection. Instead there was crime scenes and adventure and excitement, everything John missed about being a soldier. 

So as you can imagine, Sherlock's relapse was the worst thing John had ever seen.

It was strange, considering the fact he'd seen his sister turn back to booze so many times, but that was different. Harry was troubled and dangerous and moody; Sherlock had no need to escape to cocaine with an intellect like his. When John met Sherlock in the hospital, he was terrified to find Sherlock rested his headvon the doctor's chest, whispering apologies and the odd tear dripping from his blue-greeny eyes. John, instead of running away like he wanted to because he couldn't stand to see this, the smartest and coldest man he knew reduced to  _this,_ he ran a hand through the detective's hair and whispering words that spilled into Sherlock's ear. "Sssh, it's okay, Sherlock. Your'e going to be okay."

 

When they were in the cab on the way home, Sherlock held John's hand.

He'd done it quickly, as though it was by accident, but by the way he wrapped his fingers around his and squeezed John knew that even though he'll deny it, Sherlock needed this. His thoughts were confirmed when, when he returned the favour by gently rubbing circles into Sherlock's hand, he was rewarded with a smile that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

Maybe having a stray wasn't as bad as he'd thought.


End file.
